Ah, life in the 21st century; still distracted, certainly, and seeking focus. Peter Babiak’s book came up in conversation and Keir pointed out a reference to me and my work in a section on Vancouver Poetry: “Poems are like discourses in that, like philosophy, they contain knowledge but their focus isn’t just on delivering some knowledge but also on how we get to that knowledge in that word engine. Even when they’re about Vancouver, all poems are really about doing things with language. Like when Heather Haley, who has the sexiest voice in all of poetry, puts a contemporary spin on that historical desire to make a culture out of Nature in her poem “Habitat”: ‘We plan like architects to bring the outdoors/in.’ It’s the sheer simplicity of the lines, perforated with that little line break, that produces the thought.” Indeed there is much insight to be gained from poetry. I find it sad that so many people are poetry phobic.

Peter adds: “The enticingly-voiced poet Heather Haley, whose earthy lines nudge and edge themselves into your mind, posted this reference I made to her work years ago.  Not only does she have the sexiest voice in poetry, but her work proves that few forms of expression are as suited to shifting our thinking as poetry.”

Agreed. If only the haters could get over themselves and take a little time to read some poetry.  Also, such an acknowledgement of voice provides a boost and helps me feel a little less like I’m writing in a void. 

For me, bandmates are family. For life. Forever. Current and former. And Randy changed my life, such as it is. Was. Along with Brad, whom I suspect was inspired to create his own version of the Avengers after returning to Vancouver.

Thus the 45s were born. As with many ideas, the band crashed and burned within less than a year but we wrote singular songs and played memorable gigs along the way before foolishly breaking up on the eve of opening for PIL, at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles, which I chalk up to youthful hubris and folly. Another dashed dream. C’est la vie.

In any case, it was always a privilege and a pleasure knowing a rara avis such as Randy and not surprisingly, he popped up in one of my recent poems.

FLYING DREAMS

Not much to do in a small town.

We’d skip school, drive to Richmond,

hang out in the airport lounge,

swig Heinekens and watch

jumbo jets land and depart,

rarely carded in those days,

no one surprised if you drank alcohol

at age fourteen. It was expected,

like shedding one’s virginity.

My mother never flew in her life,

terrified the first time I took off

in a 10-seat Otter north to Gilford Island

for a summer job of tree-planting,

hapless recruits seated on the floor,

engine cacophony so loud I nearly puked.

I would have been mortified.

Too young to be a hippie,

I lasted four days,

relieved to escape the stench

of fried tofu and patchouli.

My next flight was south,

to Los Angeles to join

punk rock stars Randy, Brad and Karla,

we, the newly formed 45s,

to share a bill with PIL

at the Olympic Auditorium,

going so resoundingly

I didn’t return for twelve years,

pummeled but resigned

to my tantalizingly

close to-the-brass ring

but never-was status.

Surveying the girl

with the Please Kitty backpack,

fevered skin crazed with crimson,

I knew this flight was to be

my last excursion

for a while,

for as long as it takes

for everyone to recover

our dreams.

One instance when a picture prompts a poem. Doesn’t usually do it for me. And more reflections on the cruel, inexorable nature of time. This little guy is now 27 years old! *sigh*

JUNIOR

In the receding gloam
I ponder a stratum of blue

within the photograph of my son,
hone in on his baby blue peepers,

cobalt against a periwinkle blanket.
His radiant bare head emerges

from beneath a navy cap.
Bundled in a fleece jacket,

wrapped within a sheepskin throw,
pensive, his immense hands grip nothing

He’d quit bawling by then
and we pleasantly romped in the park.

There’s a lot of love in this poem but some people can’t see it. Or rather, feel it.

Finally getting back to writing-and this blog-after being sidetracked for months. And today all I could manage was a bit of editing. Feeling uninspired and it’s sad when poems from six months ago are no longer relevant. Oh well, I will persist. I always find salvation in action.

As a side note, T Rex and David Bowie saved my sanity in high school.

IT TAKES TWO

We engage in a dance
called Together Then Apart.

Intervals between vary according
to the latest news or mutations.

With enough lovers to fill a ballroom
we’ve moved past the Tango,

past clinging, demands, urgency,
and sexual intrigue be damned.

My time alone runs concurrently
with the time I have left,

prizes both,
however long they may last.

I’m ready at last
to honour my body,

its ability to function,
to serve, to move.

I marvel at the ease
with which he inhabits his,

watch it long and lithe
break free of the stove

to pretend with the Pretenders,
neon fuchsia boa flowing

over sinewy chest,
pink feather clamped

between teeth ala Flamenco,
muscle-grooved arms,

a flurry of fists, raven hair,
flying solo in the moment.

I recently participated in a Women In Punk panel as part of Dina Goldstein’s exceptional OG Punk photo exhibit at the Polygon Gallery. In esteemed company, I was  thrilled to engage in lively discussion with Jade Blade of the Dishrags, Vanessa Richards of Bolero Lava and Sook-Yin Lee of Bob’s Your Uncle. That was then. Naturally these remarkable women have gone on to much greater heights. I’m grateful for the experience; it’s provided a ray of light during a dark time.

Here are the links, enjoy:

Women In Punk Panel Discussion

CBC’s Early Edition with Sook-Yin Lee and host Michael Quinn